The way it was: Of past and present
Mian Ijaz Ul Hassan
Usually memories have a sweet vanilla scent, some time a burnt caramel flavour.
Almost everyone loves to have pudding for desert. Pampering a sweet tooth is
fine, once in a while
Time destroys everything — vanity above all. The past is whatever is out of
sight. And what is out of sight, as they say is also out of mind. Dimmed
memories of what was or has been flicker into life at the finishing line and
then expire into hot ash. Soon the ash cools down, washed away partly with
tears, but mostly swept into infinity by passing winds. Yet the mind clings onto
memories like a forlorn plant dangling from a precipice.
The mighty aspire to bend time. The meek float along with it. Both in the end
are engulfed, by the fathomless truth of mundane reality of being and then
passing on to an existence beyond shadows, beyond impermanence and hope.
Memories provide a wonderful facility to peg one’s feelings to but I wonder if
it would be worthwhile to relive life again. In any case even the most cherished
moments cannot be wrested from the past.
Things exist in their own perspective of receding time and place. Usually
memories have a sweet vanilla scent, some time a burnt caramel flavour. Almost
everyone loves to have pudding for desert. Pampering a sweet tooth is fine, once
in a while, but relishing deserts cannot be good. The best minds live off the
crusty present, rather than repose on sweet and sour memories.
Often out of curiosity I have felt compelled to take a journey to the familiar
places of my childhood and youth; some of them are literally at an arm’s
distance. I have always suppressed the urge for fear of destroying the vivid
images harboured in my heart. We lived for a while at Raiwind, where my father
was posted after the Partition in 1947, in a house near the Railway Station.
Here are a few extracts from a poem recounting my memories of the place.
‘An avenue of acacia trees, without shadows
Gravel and dust plodded into a path
Without form or definition’
‘... clusters of bilious blossoms
Exuding a sticky sexy odour’
‘A solitary Jaman in a patch of corn
And fragrant roses on the lawn’
‘Torso of a mulberry tree...
Nursing a gaping hole’
‘Life then was so full of Things
The scent of flowers, the taste of common things.’
But this was, ‘far away and long ago.’ Can they be recapitulated by a visit?
No! They live in the form of colours and smells, images and feelings ensconced
in the heart. They can be partially enlivened by imagination alone.
Talking of memories one of the things, oddly enough, which has come to mind are
the Starlings. In those days and for years later, flocks of Tilliars, as they
are indigenously known, would annually arrive in spring from nowhere and alight
on every branch of berry bearing trees. These starlings, black and purple, the
size of our maina, were migratory birds, which flew all the way from Siberia,
like the wild ducks, to escape the Siberian winter. Some of the flights
comprised thousands. The biggest ones to be seen were at the Changa Manga forest
plantation. In the cities, starlings would break up into small groups. Many of
them would venture into the very heart of the city and could be seen making
quite a noisy racket hopping branches on the peepal trees at the Mall.
It was a great time for hunters. Since shotguns were not allowed in the
municipal limits, young lads and grown up vagabonds followed them around,
carrying airguns and catapults. It was impressive to watch how some of the
street boys could knock a tilliar off the tree with his catapult. While using
the catapult one has to be very careful. I have seen amateurs, like myself,
while aiming at a target hit their own hand, which is extended forward to hold
the catapult while the left hand pulls back the rubber string to let go a stone
missile. It is agonising when you get hit on the thumb.
Starling is a pretty little bird, which unlike most other birds is not shy of
humans. I have not seen starlings for years now. I wonder why they have stopped
coming. I believe some of these birds still visit Peshawar. I hope the people of
Peshawar make sure that the starlings continue to fly to their city. What joy
they brought to us here. Every spring I miss their constant chatter and never
fail to scan branches of trees in the hope that there may be a few perched
behind the leaves.
Serious sportsmen consider it improper to shoot tilliars. Unfortunately today
frustrated hunters trudging back home with an empty bag seek satisfaction in
killing non-sporting birds like doves and pigeons. That is not on. Today besides
netting Partridges and Quails, some scoundrels have also started netting our
birds of familiar plumage. What follows is an extract from what Aslam, my
driver, penned down at my asking, so that it could be shared with others.
“The creator of the cosmos had made the world so beautiful that it baffles
human intelligence. The cattle, the birds and the predators carnivorous animals
have all been created but man was the supreme creation. In the world hierarchy,
man dominates everything else. But sometimes man steps beyond the limits of
cruelty. He demonstrates such lack of sensitivity that even an ordinary person
like me is forced into thinking, ‘What is man doing?’
“So sire, I am neither a column writer, nor a learned person. I am a common
man and I am Mian Ijaz ul Hassan sahib’s driver.... So one day Mian Ijaz ul
Hassan sahib, one of his companions Chaudhry Ghulam Kibria sahib and I happened
to go to Gujranwala... to buy a pair of electric motors. Mian Sahib and Chaudhry
Ghulam Kibria decided to stay back at the office of Mr Riaz Khokhar, the person
who had bored the tube wells and sent Riaz sahib and myself to survey the Bazaar
and purchase the required motor. While we were proceeding through the Bazaar,
probably it was Gujranwala’s Circular Road; I witnessed with my own eyes the
ultimate cruelty of man. This man had put up this hoarding like the chicken meat
sellers. But instead of chicken the man had strung up small birds. They are
called Sehayyrds in local lingo. These birds according to Shariat are not
kosher, but this man was conducting business at the cost of the lives of these
innocent birds. I cannot express how sorry I felt about him and the people who
were buying the birds.
“On venturing ahead in the bazaar, we entered a shop to buy electric motors.
While we were inspecting some old motors a man barged in. He had in a bag
roughly two hundred starlings — the non-migratory common black spotted ones,
which the shopkeepers were buying for eight rupees each. When I feigned interest
in the merchandise the shikari informed me that Doves were also available, for
twenty two rupees each.
“So sire, shikar (hunting) should be treated as shikar. It should not be made
a business. These innocent birds have done us no harm; we should have pity on
them. When I recounted all this to Mian Sahib, he was very upset and asked me to
write all this down, which I have done at his behest.
“In the end I wish to appeal to the people of Gujranwala that in God’s name
they should discourage these commercial hunters from doing business with the
lives of these innocent birds. I also appeal to the higher authorities of the
Wild Life Department that they should impose a ban on the shikar of these
innocent birds and catch these shikaris and award them punishment not too severe
but enough to restrain them from committing such a crime.” Signed, Muhammad
Aslam, driver.
Prof Ijaz-ul-Hassan is a painter, author and a political activist